I tried to explain the paint to itself. It cracked into a thousand countries while I talked on and on. I did not want you to know I was secretly building an Armada. I kept it in a forest behind the motel.

The quiet conversations that occur between greens filled the window. But was it really a window? Nobody looking through it was sure. Even just looking at it, we felt like imposters.

The children who live under the earth prepared to celebrate Christmas. This was the Other Earth, Other Christmas. Weirdly enough, through the moonlit snow, we heard the bells far below our feet. They were shaking them into voices.

But then they must have heard us listening, because they stopped.